


Sixty-Four

by losthitsu



Series: Sixty-Four [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/losthitsu/pseuds/losthitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Francis as a fluffy domestic couple coping with their suddenly sexless marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Arthur swore under his breath and glared at the bright red shirt in his hands.

“You know,“ he started, clearly addressing the piece of fabric since nobody else was around, “one would think that after several washings, you would grow out of that stupid habit of yours; but no, you just keep spreading your lovely red hue on everything around you.”

He glanced to his right at the pile of ruined white T-shirts, his T-shirts, never some of Francis'. 

This was how his husband found him, squatting on their hall floor, surrounded by small heaps of washed and unwashed laundry.

“Having fun, you two?” he asked as he carefully placed the three grocery bags and his briefcase on the floor, fumbling with the deadbolt lock.

Arthur didn't even lift his head as he answered: “Oh shut up, you are the one who prefers designer clothes because they reportedly have better quality, my ass.”

“Well, my dear, unfortunately, I'm not a laundry expert like you.”

“Yes, and unfortunately, I'm the one who has to deal with the results of your OCD shopping sprees.”

A simple rule that avoided most household problems: Francis cooked and took care of the grocery shopping, Arthur cleaned and did the laundry. It had worked when they'd started living together; it worked now.

Francis hung his pea coat into their closet, and, carefully avoiding the laundry piles with all three bags, stepped next to his still-kneeling husband.

“I'm sorry my shirt is misbehaving,” he said and placed a gentle kiss on the crown of Arthur's head, his own hair falling freely over his face.

Arthur threw the damnable object into the empty basket and lifted his head so that he could return the kiss, a quick, upside-down peck on the lips. 

“How was your day?” Francis asked, heading for their kitchen.

“The usual.” Arthur followed him and leant against the door-frame. “My editor called, she wants the article about hydrangeas as soon as possible. I'm not even in the first half of it. Hydrangeas are like pest.” He watched Francis' automatic movements as he emptied the grocery bags on the counter. “Yours?”

“We finally managed to sell the little Dutch School landscape, you remember, I told you about it.” — Arthur nodded. — “Really, I'd started to lose hope.”

Francis turned around and handed his husband two shampoo bottles and a pack of toilet paper rolls. Arthur, quite resigned with the silent message that his place was certainly not in the kitchen, left to position the items in their respective places in the bathroom.

 

Dinner was ready in thirty minutes, as Francis never bothered with too complicated meals on workdays. The pasta sauce was divided in two smaller pots, one garlic-free. Arthur hated garlic.

They'd abandoned the dining table long ago and used it only in those rare cases when they received guests in a more formal way; it was too much work to set it properly. So they sat side by side, hip by hip on the living room couch, Arthur covered with a blanket because he was always cold, plates full of pasta on their laps. They called it “watching the evening news”, but in reality they mostly talked about work and ignored the poor announcer with his Middle East crisis. 

Arthur wrote articles for several garden magazines; his ability to distinguish between more than two hundred various rose species, especially, was highly valued. He loved the work and hated the deadlines, because they always summoned the procrastination monster within him. You can't have everything, as he liked to say.

Francis worked for a small auction house that sold paintings and other art pieces. It was a nice career — he got to meet a lot of new people and see pieces that his former university classmates could only dream of. It was a stressful life, yes, but a lively and inspiring one, just what he had always wished for. 

Three weeks ago, they have celebrated their fourth anniversary.

-

Arthur, as a matter of fact, could not sit straight with his feet on the ground while typing. Right at the moment, he somehow managed to sit cross-legged in his chair, hunched forward until his nose practically touched the screen, as he furiously typed with seven fingers (he has never really managed to coerce his two pinkies and left ring-finger into cooperation). 

Also, Arthur cannot work without music; as Francis watched him from behind, he could see the red headphones poking from between his constantly disheveled hair. He was humming lowly, the first tones of we don't need no education barely recognizable. How such a deep sound could come out of such a bony ribcage was still a mystery.

For a moment Francis considered sneaking behind the huddled form of his husband, and letting the water trickle from his freshly showered hair onto his exposed neck. However, he knew Arthur had a bad habit of shouting a little too loudly when surprised, especially with headphones on, and he decided he loved his eardrums a bit more than the teasing.

So he simply walked into the other man's field of vision and waited until Arthur noticed him and pulled the headphones down from his ears. 

“Going to bed?” he asked, seeing Francis in his usual sleeping attire – that is, naked. He blamed it on the temperature in their bedroom, which was, thanks to Arthur's thermoregulation, quite a bit over the standard, but they both knew it was the last fortress of his former bohemian-like bachelor lifestyle that he still wasn't willing to give up.

Francis nodded and peered at the screen over Arthur's head.

“I guess you still have a lot to work on, right?”

“I told you, hydrangeas are the pest. I don't understand why anybody would plant them willingly in their garden.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair at a fairly dangerous angle.

“But you look tired, go to sleep. This will take another four hours unless sudden inspiration decides to end my suffering.”

Francis reached for his shoulders, and in a swift movement pulled him back into an upright position.

“Well than, have a productive night.” He leaned down for a kiss; soft, languid, they melted against each other in perfect unison. Arthur found Francis' fingers on his shoulder and entwined them with his own, and when they parted lips, their hands stayed connected.

“See you in the morning?” 

Francis shook his head, an apology on his smiling face.

“No, darling, I'm sorry, I have to be in the office before eight. Unless, of course, you would like to be the early bird.”

Arthur smirked. They both knew that the idea that he could wake up before eleven after one of his all-night sessions with botanic is nothing more than surreal. 

“Good night.” After a light squeeze, their hands finally parted, and Francis disappeared in their bedroom. Arthur stared at the closed door for a moment, a yet unknown, unsettling feeling remaining like an after-taste in his mind. 

Shaking his head a bit, he turned back to the computer screen and reached for the headphones that hung around his neck.

 

Francis stared at the celling above the half-empty bed for the next forty-five minutes before he finally fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

They were introduced by friends, during one of those nondescript bar parties in honor of someone's birthday, whose name wasn't really that important. Francis was 25 and already had a steady job, which allowed him to decorate his bachelor pad tastefully enough that every date he brought home was delighted, at least for the first three minutes before they indulged in the real purpose of the visit. He enjoyed the single life and its endless possibilities, but sometimes the faces of the pretty girls and boys started to blur into a stereotype. He liked to say that the occasional fit of ennui was also a part of his lifestyle.

Arthur was 22, fresh from his garden architecture studies and frankly disappointed with adult life. Even though he'd more or less overcome his high school punk phase by studying in a surprisingly diligent manner in university, he missed the thrill and excitement that the dorm parties offered. Now he was expected to lead the life of a full-fledged adult, and he was currently stuck between the desire to do something productive and the fear of a nine-to-five existence.

The light sparkled between them not when they first saw each other, but when they started to talk. If there was something Francis loved more than good wine, it was having a good partner for arguing. He has long since mastered the art of leading a cultivated verbal fight with all its teasing, double meanings and slightest undertone of flirting hidden between the lines, and in this snarky young man and his unmistakable sense of sarcasm he finally found a partner that was worth his skills.

Before long their mutual friends started to avoid them, because as soon as the two started on another verbal battle, other conversation attempts didn't stand a chance. Neither of them realized how much they enjoyed the banter until some merciful and exceptionally generous soul put a bottle of cognac between them and told them to kindly get a room.

They drank it fifty-fifty, and did just that.

And suddenly: just as they'd always known how to counter the other's argument, they knew exactly where to touch to make the other scream; insults turned into love bites and their endless fighting continued in heated whispers against feverish skin.

Simply said, their sex was mind-blowing, because - they were each other's perfect opponent.

Neither of them really thought about relationships at that point, but it was kind of stupid to willingly label the best night of your life as a one-night stand. So they did it again and again, and in-between there was more arguing that partly became talking, and then Francis needed a partner for the opening of an art exhibition, and guessed, rightly, that Arthur would look rather dashing in a tuxedo.

By that time, Arthur was 24 and Francis 27, and it had already been a year and a half since they'd first met. Both were very well aware of the fact that for the last eight months, they had been strangely monogamous and shared far more than the bed, but neither of them was willing to call it a definite name. Therefore, maybe, the real beginning of their relationship could be considered to be one rainy afternoon that found them both grumpy in Francis' kitchen, waiting for a quiche to get the right brown crust.

Arthur bitched because he had to return to the flat he was currently renting in China town from an eccentric landlord whose age could be anywhere between sixteen and fifty-two. The flat was tiny and cold, and what with all the public transports never being on time, it took him almost two hours to get back from Francis' place.

His bachelor pad was neither tiny nor cold, but recently a married couple with newborn twins had moved into the apartment above him, and he had already had a third letter in his mailbox asking him to kindly perform his nightly activities in a less vocal way. That was what Francis was bitching about.

And at precisely that moment, not only their bodies but also their minds synchronized for the first time; they each looked at the other's thinking face and simply knew that they had just had the same idea.

The ringing of a kitchen timer shaped like a red and white mushroom interrupted their telepathy; Arthur smirked and Francis laughed that strange nasal laugh Arthur always made fun of because it sounded girly, but which secretly reminded him of larks flying above frozen winter ground.

“Never, we would kill each other within a month if we were to live in one house.”

“I doubt we would last two weeks without some broken limbs.”

With that, they gladly turned their attention to the quiche and pretended they had never even thought about it.

However, providence thought otherwise, and, within a month, Francis' friend from Spain inherited an old house in the suburbs and found himself in the need to sell it. As Arthur saw the small, south-facing garden overgrown with weed but full of trees and shrubs, his breath hitched in his throat, just as Francis' did as he traced his fingers over the elaborate ornaments on the landing of the small staircase.

They moved in within three days.

The first thing they did as the truck that had brought their belongings had left was to have sex in the hall, right there on the floor between the cardboard boxes. The sudden feeling of freedom, of their own space that they could use to their heart's content, made them giddy and drunk with each other once again. The unpacking was interrupted in a similar fashion, like a pair of horny teenagers, left alone for a night by careless parents, that had just discovered what their bodies were capable of.

Soon enough, they settled down. None of their catastrophic scenarios were fulfilled, and they slowly developed their own everyday routines. Arthur started writing for the magazines and had therefore time to tend to their little garden. Within two years it became the pride of the entire street, filled with greenery and plants that were evidently well mended and well loved.

Francis joined him on weekends, and for someone willing to change his entire outfit when the tiniest drop of morning coffee landed on his immaculate shirt, he was surprisingly eager to switch into less flattering working clothes, an old straw hat protecting his sensible complexion in summer. He called it letting go.

One summer Sunday found them squatting between the rosebushes, weeding, one of the few garden activities Francis could be trusted with, considering his minimal knowledge in nature subjects. An accidental smudge of dirt on Arthur's left cheek somehow led into a bitter fight of how-much-mud-can-I-rub-in-your-face; it ended quite quickly, as the soil was dry, and they soon found out they clearly lacked ammunition.

Then they were sweaty and out of breath, sitting back to back because Francis complained that all the squatting was killing his lower back, and he needed to lean on something. After they had stopped laughing — fights ending in laughter were still a pleasantly new experience for them — they just breathed in their comfortable silence, feeling each other's spine through their backs.

And then Arthur said:

“Do you think we could get married?”

He never explained if it had been a long planned question and he had just been waiting for the right opportunity, or if it was a random thought he felt like voicing.

Francis never asked.

But he laughed his lark-like laugh and said that yes, they certainly could.

Later, Francis would tease him and call it the proposal of a closet romantic: surrounded by roses on a summer day. Arthur would snap back that having your shirt plastered to your neck with sweat and smelling of fertilizer was certainly not how he understood the concept of romance, and that proposals usually included kneeling on one knee and rings and similar “stuff,” as he called it.

The rings came, only later. One band made of white gold for Francis' ring-finger, and one of identical design for a thin chain around Arthur's neck, so that he could play in the mud and not endanger the symbol of their vows.

The wedding itself was small but classy, the first being Arthur's condition, the second Francis'; a careful assortment of their closest friends and family members that were open-minded enough to attend. Arthur wrote a sonnet. Francis sobbed as he read it. 

 

Arthur cried after the successful consummation of their wedding night, stress and post-coital endorphins leaving him more vulnerable than he had ever felt in his life. 

His husband held him close until dawn.


	3. Chapter 3

Maybe it was the strange telepathy that connects some married couples. More likely, the universe simply liked the irony of human lives, and they both realized it at the same time.

 

Francis didn't brown-bag. It lacked the charm if you did it only for yourself, and Arthur was generally asleep in their bed at noon. He prefered his own small selection of restaurants near his office, stylish and cosy ones with decent food and good service.

Finding him in a beer garden of all places during his well deserved break was therefore a little surprising. His essential feeling of vague disgust caused by the sticky residues of what is hopefully beer on the tables was, however, replaced by a very virtuous one; namely, that he was helping someone in need.

Francis was, after all, a very kind soul. Especially when it came to his German colleague.

It had been almost a year since Ludwig had started working for their auction house, and it had taken Francis exactly five minutes in front of the coffee automate to rightly guess that he was gay. And, sadly, a very closeted one. Virgins always awoke the Samaritan in Francis, and so he had mentioned in all innocence that his husband also always chose lemon tea, even when he had the whole selection of coffee lattes and espressos before him. He had known the bait worked when Ludwig's eyes had widened, half in fear that he was being mocked.

There was then a timespan of two weeks before the repressed man had mustered the courage to ask Francis if he really was married to another man. In answer, he had received a nonchalant invitation to their home.

Arthur was thoroughly instructed beforehand that their guest was not a potential candidate for a threesome, but someone who had to be handled very carefully and with utmost tact. And that the main purpose of the visit was to show him that being gay was nothing to be afraid of. 

The dinner had been a full success, as Arthur and Ludwig had soon discovered that they shared the same views on beer and football, although they were fans of different brands and teams. Francis had outdone himself with three courses, and they had spent the evening partaking in remarkably easy conversation.

Ludwig, being the well-raised child that he was, knew exactly when to take his leave so that he wouldn't be a burden on his hosts, and had briefly excused himself to the toilet before he went home. Suddenly alone in their kitchen, Arthur had cocked his head to the side, looked at Francis with his up-to-no-good smirk and asked:

“Do you really think a dinner and some small talk is enough for someone like him to finally forget all the moral shit he was taught?”

“I had to promise him we wouldn't bite,” Francis had answered with a matching grin.

“Maybe not him.” And with that, Arthur had nearly toppled his husband with all the ferocity of a deep, long French kiss, completely with hands in tousled hair and wet smacking sounds, just in case they weren't obvious enough, and the usual heat instigated with the knowledge of being observed.

Arthur had felt Francis tug them a bit to the left, and smiled into the kiss as he had realized that they were just offering the view from a better angle.

 

Not one word was mentioned about the incident, but Francis had received a very grateful mail as thanks for the dinner and promptly answered it with a few addresses, making a mental note to contact some of his friends. Ludwig apparently wasn't as slow as he had originally feared, and, within a few months, he had looked generally more relaxed, and had started to receive some suspiciously subdued phone-calls that had to be interrupted very quickly, with a very flushed face.

Francis knew what that meant. He loved to observe people' s emotions with the same passion as his husband when he watched his little seedlings grow their first leaves in spring.

And when he had one day received a mail from Ludwig with the simple message “Thank you”, he had known that his year's good deed had been successfully accomplished. 

In the attachment was a photo of a young man, standing knee high in seawater with his trousers rolled up, holding his trainers in one hand and smiling a dazzling smile at the camera.

 

This is why he considered himself a kind of a relationship guardian for his colleague, and why he had agreed to accompany him to his favourite lunch place, since Ludwig had looked positively desperate when he invited him. And that is how he found himself playing with the coasters, until he realized that they weren't all the same colour, meaning, they had been exposed to various liquids, and promptly put them down before reaching for a napkin. 

Ludwig thankfully stopped throat-clearing compulsively before their lunch-break was over, and finally leaned closer to his companion to say, in a barely audible voice,

“I need advice about... sex.”

Francis had to bite both corners of his mouth to stop the ear-to-ear grin that threatened to spread over his face as he heard of his favourite subject. Carefully maintaining his composure, he also whispered:

“Anything you need. Just ask.”

Ludwig took a few deep breaths and looked as though he would be mentally repeating a prayer of sorts, if the thought weren't so absurd. 

“How often is normal?”

That cost Francis a short burst of laughter, graciously concealed into a cough. The question honestly surprised him – he had been preparing himself for a wide range of inquiries from the different brands of condoms to the best way to mend small injuries, but not for this.

Ludwig cleared his throat for good measure and then started talking in very non-typical hushed sentences.

“My partner is very... what's the word, vigorous? I do really enjoy our activities —" (Francis mentally facepalmed at how someone could call the highest act of love an “activity”), "— but he recently moved in my flat and he keeps insisting...that we proceed with these activities.... numerous times in a single day.”

“Don't you enjoy it?” was the simplest question Francis could think of.

“Yes, I do, I just wondered if we are not...overdoing it.”

Francis smiled his best reassuring smile and patted Ludwig's hand.

“I wouldn't worry about that. As long as you both enjoy it, there is nothing wrong about doing what you feel like doing.”

“How often,” Ludwig looked straight into his eyes, “do you do it with Arthur?”

“Why, every day, of course...” Francis' answer was automatic, the same thing he always said when he was talking to his friends about his married life. Only, this time, his smile froze, and his mind started racing furiously. 

And while Ludwig mumbled a vague thank you and happily returned to his pork, Francis stayed stock still as he went through the past few days. Wait, so, yesterday was the deadline for the hydrangeas. The day before, a family that Arthur had once helped with their vineyard had given them three wonderful bottles of vintage wine, and they had decided that life was too short to wait for a special occasion, drank two of them and fallen asleep tangled on their living room couch. 

The day before that, Francis had gotten home angry and tired from the talk to an exceptionally stupid customer, and Arthur had suddenly remembered how to use their coffee machine, made him a latte in a pint glass and listened to his irritated grumble until he had finally left out enough steam to groggily fall to bed.

And before that, it had been the weekend, and they had had Francis' parents for a visit; and it was kind of tactless to have sex while they were in the next room, quite apart from the fact that they had talked until four in the morning. And on Friday the two of them had watched a Korean movie that they had got recommended from Francis' boss, and it had been so sad and depressing and emotionally draining that they had just felt like cuddling.

That meant that, yes, it had been on Thursday that they had last had sex, nice and slow and without rush, with the lights dimmed and the blankets thrown onto the carpet from their large bed so that they had more space, just like they both liked it. 

Well, today was Thursday again.

-

 

Arthur listened to the monotonous beeping of the dial tone, holding the phone between his shoulder and ear, and flipped through the newest sample of the rival gardening magazine. Just as he studied the page about honeysuckle varieties with utmost disgust – pffft, they never came in this dark shade of purple, their photoshop artist was clearly bored and knew nothing about climber plants – the other end picked up.

“Who's there?” a childish voice shouted into the earpiece, quickly followed by a more mature voice, echoing from the distance:

“Peter! We told you already, it's either 'Peter Kirkland speaking' or 'Hello, you reached the Väinämöinen family.' People will hang up on you if you are this rude to them.”

The mature voice came closer and was now speaking into the earpiece.

“Hello, Tino Väinämöinen speaking.”

“Tino, hi. Um, Arthur.”

“Arthur, nice to hear you! I'll give the phone back to your brother, okay?”

Arthur had been nineteen when he had lost his parents, and although it had been a blow for him and his two older brothers, they hadn't had much time to brood over their sorrow. Their youngest brother Peter hadn't even reached his third birthday, and he had suddenly refused to speak entirely. After a few not very successful appointments with various specialists, they had been sent to a paediatric who had made a very good name for himself with similar problems. When the three brothers in black suits had first spotted the stone-faced doctor, who had looked as if he was about to eat them alive, every single overprotective piece of their collective sibling consciousness had told them to run away as fast as they could. Peter, however, just — as they were told later — like all the other kids, had walked towards the scary-looking man without hesitation, and had clenched the hem of his white robe between his hands. 

On their third visit, Peter had suddenly pointed at a picture of a white puppy which the paediatric kept on his work table, and had pronounced in a clear voice:

“Doggy!”

The doctor had left the room to grant the brothers and they impromptu group hug some privacy.

The sessions had continued, and somewhere in-between doctor Berwald — as was this man's name — had begun to work as a psychologist not only for Peter, but for all four Kirkland siblings. There was something very reassuring in the patient way he listened to their everyday problems, how hard it was to look after a small child who needed proper education, and to manage a household for all three young men, not to speak of the financial burden their new situation brought, what with the mortgage and college fees. 

Peter liked the doctor beyond measure and was clearly seeing in him the replacement of his missing father figure. The brothers had, however, been rather shocked when he proposed that he could take care of the young boy during weekends or when they had problems finding a sitter. They had been too happy to wonder whether he really wanted to spend his free time with a child that wasn't even his own.

A year later, Peter had had a wider vocabulary than most four year olds, and he spent more time with Berwald than with his brothers, who were busier and busier with their own adult lives. The mystery of how such a stoic and quiet man could help a child into regaining speech had been resolved when they visited his family and met Berwald's spouse – a fierce young man with a constant smile on his face and a speech pattern resembling that of a kalashnikov. 

On that visit, they had first discussed the option of adopting Peter into the family.

The legal process had taken another year, but, by the time it was completed, Peter was already happily living with his two daddies. Because he was their only child, they gave the boy every bit of attention and comfort they could, and, even considering the tragedy he'd lived through, he was still having a beautiful childhood. He was now twelve, very bright for his age, and the only thing that his older siblings ever complained about was his rather too boisterous ego for a middle schooler. His parents, afraid that he might be bullied because they were both male, were raising him up as an extremely confident and outgoing child.

The Kirkland sibilings knew very well how important one's family was, even if one's regular conversation consisted mostly of good-natured bickering. They agreed to see Peter every week in turn, and that was why Arthur was calling in the first place.

"And than the kite got so high, I bet you never saw a kite flying that high! It was our special kite and it looked just like the Gyarados, and I painted it all by myself, Daddy just helped with the mouth…"

Arthur rubbed the base of his nose.

"Peter. Peter, listen!“ The twelve-year-old finally interrupted his monologue for all of three seconds, and Arthur was determined to use them.

"I asked if you would come on Sunday."

"I don't wanna go to your place again! You start to snuggle with Francis and do yucky things the moment you think I don't see you!"

Arthur spluttered and accidentally spitted on the mouthpiece. 

"We do not! That happened three years ago, and you are not supposed to remember that!" he snapped, wiping the spit with his shirtsleeve.

"I do and I demand to be accompanied with a suitable adult!" This was not the first time one of the Kirklands brothers thought their youngest would make a splendid lawyer in the future.

The static changed and Tino's voice echoed from afar again.

"Peter, you can't just invite someone else to other people's houses! That's not very nice, you know?"

"No, actually," Arthur interrupted, "I think that would be rather nice if you could come as well, I mean, you and Berwald."

He and Francis enjoyed their company, and had always considered them as part of extended family. They were both very non-standard people, just the sort they liked.

"Oh, really? That's very sweet of you! I fear Berwald…." there was a brief pause, and Arthur thought Tino must be looking at their fridge, where they kept a large and particularly colourful board with the schedules of all three family members' appointments, "yes, Berwald has to be at the hospital, but I would love to accompany Peter for the afternoon, if it's not a problem."

"No, not at all. You know we like your company."

"You know we like you too! And Francis is so amazing with children.”

Yes, Francis and children. Maybe because he himself was an only child and, therefore, had never had to watch over them more than he was willing to, he was an expert in thinking up various creative ways to occupy a child's mind. Arthur smiled as he remembered Francis standing by their kitchen counter, tongue peeking from one corner of his mouth, pastry bag in his steady hands, as he adorned a twentieth cupcake with light blue butter-cream, knowing Peter abhorred every other colour. Or the rainy afternoon when the boy visited again and everybody was bored, and Francis disappeared in the cellar only to return with his old set of tempera paint he'd used in college. Together with Peter, they had not only applied it to every bit of cardboard they could find, but to the table and carpet as well.

Arthur had refused to speak to Francis for the whole of the following day, because tempera paint on carpets was clearly a sabotage intended against the person who was in charge of cleaning them.

They settled the hour of the visit and ended the call, and Arthur, even after hanging up, was still smiling, the nice image of his husband lingering in his head. Francis, making small elaborate canapés at one in the morning the time they had both agreed they they were still hungry, and he had refused to eat popcorn or some other food proper only to commoners. Or as he'd dragged them both through the fifth textile store in search of the perfect beige curtains, because there was no way he would allow dark blue in their bedroom when it was already June.

Wait. Since when was the mental picture of his husband represented by cupcakes and curtains? Where was his hair plastered to his face with sweat, the prominent flush on his chest and his damnably sharp teeth that loved to mark what he could reach?

Their relationship was always based on sex, wasn't it.

Wait...

Today was Thursday.


	4. Chapter 4

The smell of apples was everywhere.

Francis could smell them even before he opened the front door, as he rummaged in his bag for his keys with one hand, carefully holding a box with the other. A luxuriously large pack of the finest pralines, judging by the height of the box, and at least two layers – a gift from Ludwig, who, stammering, thanked him for the lunch talk once again before he had left his office.

Finally finding them in the pocket of his suit jacket, he entered the house, the fruity smell becoming stronger once he was in the hall. As he stepped form his shoes, he heard voices from the kitchen and the apple mystery was solved – one of them was particularly loud, indicating its owner's slow loss of hearing.

The old lady from next door had their first acquittance when they had settled in their house six years ago, their gardens being separated only by a sparsely growing hedge. They had known from the previous owner that the house belonged to an elderly woman, and Francis, never one to forget his manners when it came to good relationships, had baked a sponge cake and coerced Arthur into accompanying him for a visit.

What they had expected was the usual granny with kind smiling eyes, knitting in a rocking chair. 

What they had met was a hunched general. 

Her family had escaped from Eastern Europe shortly after the February revolution, her slight accent being the only reminder of her heritage, and had lost her husband during the second world war. She was a small, round, but incredibly fierce creature who, in her ninety-something years of existence, had learnt to fight the toughness of life with the passion of a soldier. 

She walked with difficulty, leaning heavily on a cane, and her hearing was getting worse, but her mind was thankfully just as sharp and impeccable as it had been when she was in her thirties. Her sitting room, where she had welcome her new neighbours on their first visit, was quite frugal and devoid of sentimental luggage, apart from a few photos of (presumably) her family members. Tea had been served to accompany the sponge cake, the old lady being surprisingly capable of using her own small kitchen despite her health problems, and the shot of vodka she had poured into her cup had been excused as a verified cure for rheumatism.

Although she hadn't the easiest of personalities and loved to order her family around, she seemed to be quite fond of her new neighbours, mostly because they soon found common subjects to talk about: cooking and gardening. Soon they began to trade recipes and tend to the most neglected trees in her small orchard.

Out of her three grandchildren, only the eldest seemed to posses enough philanthropy to help her on a regular basis – Katyusha, a young woman gifted with a chest of a size so remarkable that Arthur with Francis spent a whole evening arguing whether it was real or artificial. Considering the girl's timid character, they finally agreed on the former.

Both Katyusha and granny (her actual name was Yelena but nobody seemed to remember), were now in their kitchen when Francis walked in, surrounded by boxes full of Idared apples. Granny, sitting in a chair and propped up with several pillows, was ordering both Arthur and her granddaughter around, explaining in great detail the perfect way to store the large number of fruits.

“Hello, my boy,” she greeted as she spotted Francis in the doorway – the ignoring of actual names was mutual — “I brought the apples I promised to give you when your darling here was so sweet to prune all the trees in spring.”

Oh yes, she knew they were together. They hadn't tell her when they'd moved in, not being sure how to call their relationship at that point themselves. But two years later, when they'd started planning their small wedding, they had both realized it would be only fair to indulge involve her, regardless of her possible negative reaction.

She said, “Was about damn time, you two.” And, being the practical soul she was, instructed Katyusha to present them with Ikea gift cards. 

The girl smiled her shy smile at Francis – sometimes he wondered if she looked on the verge of tears only in her grandma's presence or if it was her default expression – and went on wrapping the apples into newspaper, her fingertips turning grey with the print. They must have been in the kitchen for hours.

And finally Arthur turned around from his rummaging behind the kitchen counter in search of more old papers, said, “I hope you have enough recipes for apple pies,” and spared him one of his favourite grins.

Francis grinned back and countered: “I would be more worried about storage place. Last time I checked, our cellar was still full with the old herbariums and garden tools you refuse to part with.”

“Nobody will touch the cellar.” Arthur the Packrat spoke in a dangerously low voice. “These beauties” — he gently palmed one of the Idareds — “are going to the attic.”

“Aren't you going to kiss?” the old lady's voice interrupted their staring contest. Her granddaughter looked petrified as she cried out:

“Granny!”

“What?” Turning to the girl, she looked offended. “They used to greet each other on the porch with such vigour I sometimes thought they wouldn't manage to get inside.”

Katyusha covered her face with both hands, not sure whether to spare her ears or eyes first.

“I'm telling you, my dear, you won't fetch a husband with this kind of attitude, mark my words. And while we're talking about this, it was long ago when I last saw you in the garden.”

This time Arthur, who was still clutching the retrieved newspaper stack, overcame his slight shock and looked accusingly at Francis, seething: 

“You said nobody would see us between the shrubs!” 

His husband only raised his eyebrows in a not very successful attempt to look innocent.

“Really, boys.” Granny turned her attention from her granddaughter back to her hosts, “what happened to your appetite? I was hoping you would entertain me for a few more years.”

“We're going home, granny.” Katyusha evidently won her inner fight and decided to take action.

“I'm sure that now Mr. Bonnefoy is back, they will manage the apples on their own – no, you don't have to see us off.” She handed the old lady her walking cane and helped her from the seat to her feet. 

Reluctantly, granny followed, although looking generally pissed, as though she was deprived of her favourite soap. In a way, she was.

Katyusha quietly thanked them for the biscuits they had been served and wished them good luck with the boxes. As soon as they disappeared behind the kitchen corner, she complained in a hushed voice – “Granny, why do you always embarrass me like that!”

“My dear girl,” was the loud answer of the old lady, as she waited for her coat, “when you will be ninety something, you will understand that it's much more fun to say the things you shouldn't than the things you should.”

After this questionable statement, the front door closed with a loud thud, and silence followed.

After a few seconds Arthur finally moved, and, still half on autopilot, reached for the tea-kettle. 

Francis relaxed his posture, leaning with his back against the kitchen table, and said with trained nonchalance:

“She's lovely, isn't she.”

“Quite.” Arthur's answer was much more reluctant, as he filled the kettle with water and put it on their gas stove.

“Although I can't help thinking...”

“Me too, actually...”

“That what she said...”

Pause. And then:

“We didn't have sex in a week!” Francis practically shrieked, terror over his face.

“I know!” Arthur's expression was equally shocked. “I think we should...”

The rest of the sentence was swallowed in a pained yelp as his back was slammed to the kitchen counter.

Francis' hands were suddenly everywhere, rubbing his shoulder blades through the soft fabric of his worn t-shirt he wore for gardening, needy and hot. And then they went lower, grasping his hips, and Arthur understood, because he wanted it too. He braced himself on his hands, and, with his husband's help, sat on the counter. 

Immediately, Francis' mouth went for his neck, eager to lick and savour and – oh dear God – he tasted like apples, the same sweet-sour smell of the Idareds, his skin soaked with it. And a crazy thought crossed his mind — to bite so hard that the thin skin would tear and he could taste the fruity inside on his tongue, and he felt Arthur's hands going for the belt of his suit trousers and...

With an ear-shattering whistle, the water in the forgotten kettle boiled over and extinguished the flame on the stove.

Francis jumped back like a teenager caught with a joint in a toilet stall, and, tilting back his head, immediately started laughing.

Arthur, ever the practical soul, hopped off the counter and slapped his useless spouse in the chest. Scowling, he finally switched off the stove, but as he saw that the kettle spilled water over the officially looking envelopes he forgot to open and carelessly left on the counter, and with the catchy laugh still echoing through the room, he gave in and burst out too.

“What are we doing.” Francis finally caught his breath and wiped the tiny tears at the corners of his eyes.

“Hey, speak for yourself! I wasn't attacking anybody in his own kitchen.” Arthur tried to look hurt; a tough thing to do since he was still hiccuping from the laughter. 

Francis took a deep breath. “You know,” he said with the exhale, “I think this is actually a very serious matter and we need to have a serious moment.” he said, eyes still smiling.

“You mean, Serious moment?” Arthur's eyes flew up to the top of the kitchen shelf.

Francis nodded, and, standing on his tiptoes, reached up to the top shelf for a small box, cleverly hidden behind a rice cooker they had got from the Bonnefoy family as a wedding present and whose manual they'd never bothered to read.

They both used to smoke a lot when they were in university; however, when Francis got a promotion and his job became more serious, social obligations forced him to quit. Arthur continued for a while but then started complaining that it wasn't half as fun if you smoke alone, and besides the money could be put to far better use, and after a year of struggling quit as well.

Francis still remembered this little reminder of his husband's solidarity every time he was cross with him.

And then they were on holiday in Egypt, several years ago, and they had the sort of usual lover's spat that awaits every couple when they have their much needed alone time twenty-four hours a day for two weeks, and when they finally stopped being childish and decided to talk, Arthur impulsively bought a pack of chokingly strong Egyptian cigarettes in an automat in the hotel lobby.

Needless to say, the nicotine calmed their nerves to the point that they could have a civilized conversation, and solved the problem of “who was responsible for the sand on the bathtub bottom”. And afterwards they realized that they had just been given a perfect device for stressful situations – only to be applied very wisely. 

And so the little box found its way to the secret place behind the rice cooker. Both knew how many were left, and were therefore certain the other was not smoking behind his back – because these crisis cigarettes were smoked exclusively together. The last time they had used it was after a stressful weekend when Peter had come to visit and been promptly overpowered by an especially nasty fever. They had smoked to calm their ragged nerves the moment Berwald left with the little patient, after a sleepless night of damp cloths pressed to a sweaty forehead and the feverish babbling of a completely exhausted child.

Arthur found the matches and together they took the wonderful first drag, enjoying the bitter taste of nicotine in the back of their mouths. They smoked in silence, tapping the ash off in a cleaned can from yesterday's tuna, which was kept aside for the separated garbage, looking at the smoke slowly accumulating beneath the ceiling.

Francis first noticed that he had almost gotten to the filter, so he stubbed his cigarette out, and, thoughts absolutely clear apart from a smoky haze, looked Arthur straight in the eye.

“Is it me?” His voice was serious. Conspicuously so.

“What?”

“Am I not...” — he even sniffled, the damned drama queen — "attractive to you any more?” 

Arthur snorted.

“Stop the theatre, Francis. You are perfectly capable of using a mirror, and, by the way, wasn't it you who always proclaimed that only one group of people wouldn't think you at least remotely attractive, and they were generally called lesbians?”

Francis had the nerve to chuckle at the reminder of his catchphrase from his college days.

“You're just fishing for compliments, aren't you? Knowing that nobody and last of all me...” Arthur's eyes grew wide. “You aren't cheating on me, are you?”

Francis' mouth opened in shock.

“Who do you think I am?” His voice sounded much more genuine. He raised his left hand with its back to Arthur, waggling his ring finger ostentatiously. “I promised something to you, Arthur Kirkland, and I fucking meant it!”

Unlike his husband, Francis only used swearwords when he was really angry. 

Enough of a proof.

“I get it, I get it.” Arthur hoped it sounded comforting. “Nobody is cheating on anybody and libidos seem to work like they should. So what's the damn problem?”

Francis stopped acting, and, for once, seemed to be deep in thought. 

“Routines?”

“Routines? That's not a valid reason for sexual abstinence, you're just reading too many of your glossy-page magazines.”

“No, listen.” Francis tilted his head to the side, searching for better phrasing. “I mean, we both know the other will be there tomorrow, and the day after, too, so there's no need to do something today!”

“You mean we procrastinate. With sex. Yes.” Arthur was a true master of sarcasm; every syllable was drenched in it.

“No, I mean the thrill, you see? Like when we first started sleeping with each other?”

“Oh yes, arriving in your apartment after a twelve hour shift, having a quick and needy fuck, and being thrown out after two hours of sleep because you needed to go to work and didn't have any spare keys. Yeah, very romantic.”

“That's it! We lack romance!”

“Oh, please.” Arthur looked at him, clearly doubting his mental health. “We never did romance.”

“Exactly!” Francis smiled his eureka-ish smile.


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur watched with a sick fascination as the vacuum cleaner sucked in the dust balls from beneath their bed, and interrupted its loud humming with, “There you go, you little bastards!” His headphones were on full blast, possible future deafness be damned. 

With a last elegant swipe around the corner behind the door, he finally switched the vacuum off and looked with satisfaction at the newly cleaned room. All shelves were free of dust, all wooden surfaces subtly polished, the bed-sheets freshly changed. With this, the cleaning part was over, and he could start on the decorating.

He sighed, still feeling a little sceptic over the whole romantic evening concept.

They'd had a long talk yesterday, first while clearing up all the apples in the kitchen, then after a shower, on their bed, Francis sprawled over the bed covers on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, and Arthur sitting cross-legged with a blanket around his shoulders.

Francis had gently yet persistently proposed to try the usual rose petals and candles scenario. Arthur had kept telling him in a selected assortment of heartfelt expressions what, exactly, he thought of all the “clichéd bullshit for bored housewives and media-brainwashed teenagers”. 

Francis had laughed and assured him that Romance wouldn't bite him. Arthur had snorted and said, you have no idea how many bugs can live hidden in a rose bud, and yes, they actually can bite you.

It was near midnight when Francis had finally taken both his hands in his and, stroking his knuckles, had said:

“We don't have to do anything we don't like. Let's just have fun, a nice quiet dinner with the phones switched off, and then hours of good sex?”

“Fine,” Arthur had finally grumbled. “But none of my roses will be beheaded and then heartlessly scattered all over the bedsheets. And before you suggest it, you know what I think about artificial flowers, so don't even try.”

“Yes, yes, a crime and abomination,” Francis had supplied, and had then leant over and whispered, “Don't worry, darling,” in his ear as he'd pulled him down to lie next to him, the blanket covering them both.

 

This was how Arthur now found himself standing on a chair, rummaging through the deepest shelves of a closet in a search for candles. He knew they had some left from last year's Halloween, when he had experimented with pumpkins and had actually managed to grow some really big ones, and they'd had the entire Väinämöinen family over for the carving. 

He finally found them, cleverly tucked behind a large bag in which Francis kept his forms for Christmas cookies. They were just plain white sticks, nothing fancy, but hell if he would he go out and buy new ones — after all, they were candles, that was the important part.

Since they had never possessed anything like a chandelier, he had no other choice but to to place them into mugs, three in each, and a sheet of newspaper underneath for the dripping wax. Admittedly, the nightstands weren't displays of refined taste in interior design, but he had at least tried to pick matching mugs; they were dark blue ones, with Edelweiss patterns, which Francis had brought for them from his business trip to Austria. 

Still, better than the hand-painted ones inscribed with Peter's childish handwriting in nail-polish script, saying Big Brother and Big Brother's Hubby. Definitely a turn-off.

Just as he was checking the supplies in the bedside table – lube, tissues, condoms and a lighter for the candles — he heard the front door close.

Francis looked as if he just decided to open his own stand on a farm market, arms full with baskets and bags with various green leaves peeking out. 

“They were out of oysters, stupid of me not to buy them sooner," he said, as he handed Arthur most of his cargo in order to take off his coat, “but the salmon was fresh, so it should be all right.”

“Salmon and oysters, hm?” Arthur smirked, knowing more than well the reasons behind his husband's shopping choice. “And figs? I always thought strawberries were more typical,” he added, peeking into one of the paper bags.

“We have our own strawberries all spring, I wanted something unusual,” Francis explained, taking the boxes back and pecking his husband on the cheek in the process.

“Had fun with the decorations?”

“Um...” Arthur cleared his throat. “I tried.”

 

Because this was a special day, Arthur's kitchen embargo was lifted, and he was allowed to make company for Francis.

He was told to set the table and to take out the best plates – the ones that only came out of the cupboard depths on Christmas and other rare occasions. Francis had bought them on a flea market, utterly bewitched by their subtle secession pattern, but they had managed (Arthur had managed) to break one of them within the first week, and so they had agreed to make it into a festive set for special occasions.

Cutlery and napkins were next. Arthur attempted to make a swan out of one of them – not because he fancied swan-shaped napkins, but because he was curious as to how they did it – and ended up with something that looked like a bat, when looking from the right angle. 

Triangles were much more classy anyway.

The kitchen was soon filled with the lovely smell of baked fish and lemon curd. Francis was in his usual state while making a more elaborate meal – that is, fully aware to the quiet bubbling of the asparagus in the pot, and otherwise completely oblivious to his surroundings.

Smiling, because Francis always looked so happy when doing something with dedication, Arthur quietly exited the kitchen through the back door.

He came back with five long-stemmed roses of the Gloria Dei variety – Francis' favorite; he always said he loved the strong tea-like fragrance (and never admitted that they reminded him of his partner). Arranged in a simple vase made out of solid deep-green glass, one of the very few possessions he had brought with him from his parents' house, they looked magnificent, with their soft buttery yellow centres and a pink blush over the edges of the petals.

When Francis finally awoke from his reverie and saw the sacrifice his husband had made – he always said that flowers should grow and not welt in vases – he feigned dizziness.

Arthur threw the napkin bat at him. 

 

“We need romantic music,” Francis stated matter-of-factly, as he untied his apron and switched off the hood.

“Don't worry about that.” Arthur sounded suddenly very pleased. A bad sign. “My collection would last us for a week of romantic dinners.”

Francis' look was mistrustful. “Dearest, if you think I will have a pleasant and relaxed meal with Deep Purple as a background, you are gravely mistaken.”

“I never said...” 

“And I know that Stairway to Heaven may sound very... tender in your earphones, but it's hardly an invitation for, let's say, sensual activities.”

“Fine.” Arthur huffed, clearly annoyed that Francis remembered his favourite bands only when he needed it. “But I warn you, if you suggest Celine Dion I'm sleeping in the garden shed.”

Francis made a “tsk” noise and left the kitchen, and returned with a clearly burned CD with Romantic Piano written on the surface in rather feminine handwriting.

“You wouldn't believe how pliant the girls got as soon as I played this,” Francis explained. “Got it from a cute ginger girl from the music department – as a thank you for special services.”

Arthur spared him his TMI glare and went to find his notebook.

 

Admittedly, the kitchen table looked good, with a real tablecloth, the roses, the nice plates, and carefully arranged food upon rectangular trays they had gotten from granny's Ikea coupon. There were no more candles left so they dimmed the small light over the sink with Francis' purple scarf, and it was surprisingly nice and not like a redlight district hotel room at all.

They both looked good too – Francis still in his designer suit he wore for work, hair left down – the ponytail was reserved for cooking. And even Arthur, who in the exciting atmosphere of preparations forgot to be annoyed and was actually in quite good mood, changed from his beloved corduroys into tweed trousers and a white shirt.

Francis hummed huskily as he entered the kitchen in his new outfit.

“So you do remember which trousers I'm always telling you your backside looks the best in!” he said while patting said backside. “And wait until you see my underwear!”

“You're not wearing any,” Arthur deadpanned.

“You spoil all the fun,” his husband pouted, and then bent down to retrieve glasses from the fridge.

“Ready for a romantic evening?”

Arthur, currently busy ogling his husband's behind in return, only shrugged. “Just bring the champagne.”

They clinked their glasses with a quiet “on us” cheers. 

 

“Is this radish?” Arthur asked as Francis served him one of the smaller plates full with mayonnaise salad with some unidentifiable white squares in it.

“It's celery. Celery and walnuts, a double shot.” His eyes sparkled in the soft light. “Waldorf salad, it's rather famous and I've never had the ingredients, nor the perfect target to try it out.” 

Arthur, remembering his good upbringing, waited until Francis had sat down, then picked the spoon and tasted a mouthful.

“I like it,” he simply said, looking his husband in the eyes.

Somewhere in the background, Debussy's Claire de Lune was nearing its magnificent finale.

And Francis started to choke.

At first, Arthur just pointed at the jug of water they had on the table. When the choking continued he stood up, poured a glass and handed it to him – and then he saw that Francis' face was turning red, and he panicked.

"Francis? Francis, what is it?" he cried out, patting the still wheezing man on the back. "Heimlich Manoeuvre? I don't know if I can manage…"

He reached out with both arms around his waist, but Francis' hand grasped his wrist and he finally coughed out: "Not…choking… It's like peanuts… allergy…" 

Oh yes, the peanut allergy. The reason Francis studied every package of snack food before he bought it.

Arthur, slightly calmer but still completely stressed out, searched the table with wide eyes for the possible offender.

"The damn celery!”

 

“So, apparently, celery is one of the strongest allergens amongst vegetables,” Arthur read from one of his botanic books as he entered the bedroom. “And it was most probably the cross-reaction to your peanut allergy.” 

He closed the book, looking at Francis who was lying on the bed in nothing but his shirt, a glass of water in hands.

“We are lucky it triggered only the swell and not the anaphylaxis,” he added, face serious as he walked to the bed, setting the book on the floor. “How is your throat?”

“Better.” Francis smiled, lips still a little too pink. “The worst symptoms usually pass in a few minutes, now I only have to wait until the swell subsides completely.”

Arthur eyed him suspiciously.

“I hope you don't expect me to have sex with someone who's just had a fit this close to suffocating,” he said in a dangerous voice, thumb and forefinger demonstrating just how close.

“I don't think even I could, after the shock. But could you at least light the candles?”

“Sure.”

Arthur lit all six candles and switched off the electric light. Looking around, he was taken aback at how different the room suddenly appeared, as if the soft flickering of the small flames was bringing light into new and never discovered corners.

Francis stretched his hand out towards him, and he understood the simple gesture. He too took off his trousers and climbed into bed. After a little bit of shifting they finally settled – Arthur propped up with his back against the headboard, Francis curled around his legs with his head in Arthur's lap.

“I put the food into the fridge, I'm sure it will be tasty even if we re-heat it tomorrow for lunch.” Arthur said, hoping to at least ease the disappointment. 

“Looks like the universe doesn't like the idea of us having a romantic evening.” Francis smiled, eyes closing as he felt Arthur's hand running through his hair. “Lucky for you.”

“It's not... I don't hate romantic things. I hate all the clichés that the concept usually contains,” Arthur explained, and since Francis for once didn't look like he was willing to talk too much, not with his throat feeling still raw and itchy, he simply continued. “I... I think romantic things are everybody's personal matter, that you can't copy it from a manual.”

“Like what?” Francis was practically purring with contentment. It was really rare that he could coerce his husband into this type of conversation, and he was determined to use the moment to its fullest. “What do you consider romantic?”

Arthur was quiet for a while, eyes distant and lost in thought.

“You remember when I still worked part-time and there was this huge playground lawn I had to mown? And it was summer and as hot as in the fifth layer of hell, and you stopped by during your lunchbreak with ice cream?”

Francis, his eyes still closed, saw the scene right before him – just the two of them sprawled in the shadow of a large oak tree, on a heap of freshly mowed grass that smelled heavenly and got into their hair and clothes, with ice-cream dripping everywhere because they couldn't manage to snog and eat at the same time.

He nodded. “Of course I remember.”

“Well, that was what I would call romantic.”

Francis was quiet, waiting. Maybe it was the candlelight, maybe the shock-induced relief; but Arthur spoke again.

“Or last November when we burned the fallen leaves from the garden, and then took all the blankets and sat on the garden swing to watch the fire.”

Oh yes, that one time. The blankets had nearly been ruined with the smoke afterwards, until Arthur managed to force them into their washing machine. But the night sky was clear and they had sat, snuggling like the proverbial birds of a feather, and had talked and watched the fire until only flickering embers were left.

Arthur's hands went from stroking to slowly massaging his scalp and temples.

“And you? Any particular moments your blatantly unromantic husband managed to prepare for you?”

Francis smiled and opened his eyes, looking straight into Arthur's.

“You do a lot of romantic things you are not even aware of,” he said, and, closing his eyes again, added: “Remember the blueberry muffins?”

Arthur blushed and murmured something unintelligible.

The incident had happened a few years ago when Francis had baked a wonderful batch of muffins, but as he was taking the pan from the oven, it had slipped and fallen on the floor, face down. He had been on the verge of tears when his husband had found him.

Arthur had eaten every single one of them.

There was a brief moment of silence in the bedroom, of the comfortable kind. Francis' eyes were closing, sleep slowly overcoming him, until Arthur asked:

“So, if the romance plan for our suddenly sexless marriage didn't work, what's plan B?

“Spontaneity.” Francis snuggled up against Arthur's bare tights. “We have food for the whole weekend and the house is all cleaned up. We can just stay in bed all day tomorrow, it's Saturday.”

Arthur, visibly pleased with such a prospect, gently slipped from his husband's arms and went to blow out the candles. 

 

When he turned around, Francis was already asleep, not even minding his shirt still being on.


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur awoke to the feeling of somebody's fingers creeping under the waistband of his pants.

His initial thought that he was five again and his brothers were trying to sneak their pet hamster into his pajama bottoms while he was asleep disappeared as he swatted said hand away and got a hurt “Hey!” in response.

He opened his eyes and blinked, waiting patiently for his sleepy brain to process the sudden awareness. His field of vision was mainly occupied by his husband, who was lying on his side with his face inches from his own, hair a complete mess due to the static electricity from the freshly changed sheets. He cradled the swatted hand against his chest, lips puckered in a fake pout.

“I hope you haven't been watching me sleep or something like that,” Arthur finally said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I got bored waiting until you wake up.” Francis finally stopped acting like a hurt princess and grinned. “Ready for pursuing plan B?”

What “pursuing plan B” meant was that Francis launched himself at his husband's neck and nearly knocked the breath out of him in the process. Not that it came as a surprise – both had known for years that this was his favourite place to pay attention to; waist up, that is.

After a few failed attempts to catch his breath, Arthur finally expressed his approbation of the attention his neck was receiving by threading both his hands through Francis' hair, and half-moaned, half-asked something like: “How's the swell?”

Momentarily stopping his licking and nibbling, Francis looked up, full of confidence.

“Don't worry, I'm well enough to deep-throat.”

If Arthur had planned an answer to this rather optimistic piece of information, the words got lost in a sudden moan, elicited by the teeth that sank into the tender flesh above his collarbone.

God he loved those sharp teeth.

But as Francis proceeded lower and lower, currently tickling his navel with his tongue, a remote, not yet completely aroused part of his mind commanded something like “justice”, and he yanked at the dishevelled hair to get the other's attention.

“Let me.”

“Hm?”

“Compensation. For the celery.”

Francis smiled, eyes tender, and thankfully restrained himself from making any comments about having to choke more often if he got extra service for it. With one last kiss to his bellybutton, he let Arthur take charge and push him back against the mattress.

Arthur started with the shirt, which was wrinkled beyond recognition but still smooth to the touch; one pearly white button sewn with bright red thread after another, planting kisses on the newly exposed parts of skin. Once finished, he splayed both his hands on his chest, simply touching, feeling the warm flesh and slight vibrations as Francis hummed underneath him.

 

Sliding lower and kicking the blanket away in the process, Arthur gently spread his husband's slightly bent knees apart and settled between them, kissing the line of soft blond pubic hair that led up to his bellybutton. If Francis had a neck fetish, his was definitely this part of lower abdomen; he loved to tease the hypersensitive skin and to watch the twitch of muscles as he finally reached for the cock.

Arthur knew how to please his husband, years of training having given him the time he needed to refine his technique. Although he had never really learned to deep-throat without choking, his tongue skills made up for it. It didn't take long until Francis lost his relaxed smile and his breathing sped up, hands reaching out to tangle in his husband's short hair. 

Mouth leaving the already fully hard cock, hands still stroking in a steady rhythm, Arthur looked up, noticing, with pleasure, how unfocused Francis' gaze was becoming. 

“Just so you know, next time we skip plan A and go directly to plan B,” he noted, the mischief visible in his smirk as Francis tried to answer but moaned instead, Arthur's thumb teasing his slit.

And at that exact moment, they heard the door slam.

Well, Arthur heard it; Francis was already fully occupied with shutting down his conscious mind into a nice and hazy cloud of pleasure. That was he reacted to Arthur's ceasing his movements completely with a surprised and rather dumbfounded blink.

“Arthur? Francis? Are you home?”

This time, both of them heard it.

“Of course they are home, or do you think they would leave the door open if they'd go out?” 

And they both recognized the voices as well.

“Those little fuckers!” Arthur leaped from the bed, momentarily forgetting that he was only wearing his worn-out sweatpants, which were decorated with rather suspicious stains, as well as his husband, who was still lying on his back, looking up in utter disbelief at the back of the man who had abandoned him so ruthlessly.

Barging into the hall, his blood pressure raising to the ceiling, Arthur finally faced the two intruders.

 

Matthew and Alfred had suddenly appeared in the life of the married couple three years before, after they had watched a truly ridiculous foursome porno and decided that they could do better than that. After a long and detailed discussion about who they wanted and didn't want in their bedroom, Arthur had gladly ceded the role of the hunter over to his more socially skilled half; which was why a smartly dressed Francis had been found slowly sipping at a disappointingly average mojito in a gay bar, looking for possible candidates.

What had caught his interest about a rather young couple, sitting in a far corner of the bar, was the strange secluded aura that had enveloped them, as if they had been completely oblivious to either the annoying bass rhythm that was vibrating through the air, or to the loud voices of customers trying to shout above the noise.

“I see the Siamese twins caught your attention.”

The bartender, an older man from somewhere in Middle East, with handsome features and dazzlingly white teeth shining from his tanned face, had remembered Francis from his college years, and was happy to see his former regular again. 

“Siamese twins?” 

“I've never seen one without the other, it's like they are glued together or something.” the bartender had explained while polishing the wine glasses. “We call them like that here in the bar, I swear they won't even go to the toilet alone.”

“Interesting.” Francis' smile had grown wider as he'd sipped the last remains of his rum and raw sugar and asked what they usually drank before he'd hopped off the bar stool.

Francis had cooed inwardly when the two boys had unconsciously shuffled closer to each other as he'd approached them, their distrust visible in the two pairs of eyes. Remembering his pick-up methods, he had started with a compliment – their choice of drink, that happened to be Californian wine, probably the best thing they had in the bar (though he'd conveniently not mentioned that mixing it with coke was probably the most terrible sin they could commit). After following a well-learned conversation pattern, he'd soon watched with satisfaction as they'd both relaxed, and when all three of them had had a good laugh after Matthew, despite being surprisingly quiet, had cracked a joke, he'd known he had won.

He could congratulate himself – well, he had - that his marriage hadn't robbed him of any of his social skills, nor of his ability to judge people at first sight. He had know that these two college boys, who were both twenty-two and were still surrounded by a very innocent air, would be perfect for their planned experiment - there was a generous soul hidden behind Alfred's exuberant ego, and passion burning in Matthew's timid eyes.

Three hours and another bottle later, Francis had looked at his watch and said in the most regretful voice he could muster that as much as he had enjoyed the evening, he had to return home to his husband. Who, by the way, would be positively delighted if he met them, so much was sure – and why don't we all go out for a dinner some time?

He couldn't help but smile when he had seen Alfred glance at his boyfriend, and, only after seeing Matthew's tiny resulting nod, agree for them both.

The dinner had been thoroughly planned, from the choice of a nice, but not too fancy restaurant that would allow them to talk about personal matters, to the steps in the conversation he and Arthur had agreed to follow in order to quietly coerce the boys towards their final goal; which was, to their bed. However, even the best plans have their weak points, and, honestly, who could expect that Arthur and Alfred, upon seeing each other, would simultaneously cry out, “What are you doing here?”

 

As it turned out, they had both grown up as neighbours in a small town, and Alfred, who was only four years younger than Arthur, had often been sent by his busy parents to play with the three brothers next door. It had more or less been a given that the naïve little boy had promptly become the target of all their pranks, since Peter was then yet to be born. But at the same time, a very nice friendship had bloomed between them as the years went by, especially for Arthur, who had been closest to him, and had always secretly wished for a younger brother anyway.

Their paths had parted when Arthur's family had moved away, and as it often happens in such cases, they had lost touch with each other. That is, until the moment Alfred had walked into the restaurant, wearing the only white shirt he could find in his dorm room, and, nervously peeking from behind his boyfriend's shoulder, had seen his childhood friend sitting at the table next to Francis.

After the initial shock of the unexpected meeting, Arthur had leaned towards his husband and, in a not exactly quiet voice, had seethed - “I'm not going to sleep with him!”

Alfred, easily remembering how to do the bickering, had promptly countered - “Me neither!”

Francis, touching his slightly throbbing temples, had looked up at the blushing Matthew and smiled – and that was how the two couples had become friends.

Despite their age difference and fairly different characters, they had soon found out that they could have a lot of fun when they simply spent time together, even when the original foursome plan never was completed (both Arthur and Alfred had insisted that it would feel like incest). They were also the only gay acquaintances Arthur and Francis counted as friends – Berwald and Tino were family. They didn't meet on any regular basis, but all four of them were spontaneous enough to promptly respond to an invitation for a weekend trip or an urgent need to get wasted.

Apropos of which, spontaneity. Some of them evidently possessed too much of it.

“Don't you have any decency, barging into people's houses at...” Arthur scowled at the clock on the wall, voice rising in unsheathed fury - “nine on a Saturday morning!”

“Hey, Arthur!” Alfred was already kicking off his shoes. “Why so grumpy, don't say we interrupted something!” he added, a wide smile spread over his blissfully oblivious face.

Seeing Arthur's deathglare, he turned to Matthew, who held his glasses in one hand, the other covering his eyes in a post-facepalm gesture.

“Did we?” 

 

Ten minutes later found all four of them in the kitchen. Arthur, still fuming and muttering a swearword occasionally, was sitting at the table, recovering after his temper tantrum, which would have surely been heard by their neighbour, were it not the nearly-deaf granny. Francis, in his favourite marine blue dressing gown with fleur-de-lis pattern, was preparing his husband an emergency cup of tea. Alfred, pacing through the kitchen, seemed unsure as to whether he ought to apologize or to act, as usual, as if nothing had happened. And Matthew, sitting in the corner under the window, was seemingly absorbed in a random book he had found on the shelf – Cracking the coconut : classic Thai home cooking – and generally acting as if he wasn't there.

Until Alfred, fed up with the tense atmosphere, crossed his hands over his chest and said:

“I get it, we should have called. But why so furious?” He deliberately looked away from Arthur's furrowed brows and instead asked Francis' dressing-gown'ed back. “I'm sure this isn't the first time you've been interrupted, what with how often you are at it.”

Before Arthur could react loudly again, Francis turned around, and, placing a hand on his shoulder, answered instead.

“It's just because we were trying to solve a little problem,” he said, and then, looking at the young couple before him, another idea (plan C, as Arthur would later call it), formed in his mind. He slowly moved the hand from his husband's shoulder to cover his mouth, a simple device to prevent the inevitable interruption, and explained in detail the struggle that had been their last few days.

While Matthew snickered behind the book at the celery incident (the boy had a strange sense of humour), Alfred was quiet, face scrunched up in deep thought. He had accepted the challenge, and was doing his best in finding a logical solution, since the older couple was clearly in dire need of his (their) advice.

“I think,” he finally announced, evidently pleased with his conclusion, “that you need to spice up your sexlife.”

“What.” Arthur at last remembered what his doctor had once told him about his arteries and the results of too much stress, and decided to switch to his phlegmatic mode.

“You know, like sextoys? Me and Mattie recently visited...”

“You mean I had to bribe you with candy to accompany me,” his boyfriend commented from the window corner.

“Anyhow, we visited a sexshop and got all this cool stuff, like – a dildo, and an adjustable cockring, and we... we...” 

“We had quite a lot of fun.” Matthew finished the sentence for Alfred, but they were both blushing, as this was probably the first time they were talking about the subject outside of their bedroom.

It didn't help much that Francis and Arthur both started to laugh.

“Darlings, I can't believe it took you so long to buy something like this.” Francis was looking at the young couple with a positively parental look. 

“So that mean you already have them?” Alfred asked, the disappointment clear in his voice, and Arthur promptly answered: 

“You remember the chest of drawers in our bedroom?”

Both boys nodded.

“Three bottom drawers. Full,” he added.

“Handcuffs and blindfolds?” Alfred nearly whispered.

Francis gave him a look bordering on pity and simply nodded.

“How about...” Matthew tried his luck, “how about paddles or riding crops?”

“Mattie!” Alfred's eyes were wide as saucers. This was clearly a topic they were yet to discuss.

Arthur, who was slowly starting to enjoy the whole absurdity of the situation, supplied, “And spreader bars, gags... And before you ask, we have a nice collection of costumes, too, thanks to his” - he jerked his head towards his husband - “hobby.”

The awkward pause that followed was luckily filled by the beeping of the coffee machine, and Francis served them the creative breakfast he'd made from the leftover figs.

The food calmed them down enough to discuss why the boys had come to visit in the first place. It turned out that they – well, mostly Alfred – wanted to tell them good news, namely that Matthew, after two years of not very satisfying work in a supermarket, had finally gotten his dream job in an environmental NGO. 

Quite sad for said supermarket, since he was a rather famous cashier – with the catchphrase “You just saved a polar bear!” he used every time a customer brought his own grocery bag.

That was the original reason why they were visiting on a Saturday morning - because Alfred, in his all-encompassing willingness to share their joy, had decided that the information could only be announced to their closest friends in person, and as soon as possible.

When all four had finished their breakfast, Francis stood up to collect the dishes, and after a quick conversation with his husband (which consisted of five seconds of eye-contact, one shrug, and two smirks), invited the boys to stay for lunch, since their fridge was full of festive food anyway.

The day was spent in lazy talk in the living room, both couples nibbling on the salmon, and making fun of whatever was currently on the telly. Around four Alfred started whining that he was bored, and Matthew, his expression completely innocent, suggested that they could make some pancakes. Francis, who was usually very picky about whom he let into his kitchen and whom not, was too comfortably tangled with Arthur on the couch to stand up or protest too vehemently, and simply asked that they place everything they use back to it's original place.

When the boys returned from the kitchen with two plates, cutlery and two large trays, and set everything down on the coffee table, Arthur and Francis wore identical expression of wide-eyed, open-mouthed shock on their faces.

The pancakes were green.

“Is this...” Arthur was the first to recover his coherency, “is this what I think it is?”

“Of course!” Alfred answered, gleeful as if he hadn't just helped them with twenty-five perfectly round and also possibly hallucinogenic treats. “Or did you think that we would just barge in to celebrate without a proper gift?”

Matthew, who had the nerve to still keep his good boy aura around him, added: “And we also thought, maybe remembering your college years would help you with your problem. To unwind, you see?” 

They saw. They saw the whole glory of their neighbourhood, as they decided to climb on the roof four hours later – and how they managed not to slip off the steep tiles and seriously hurt themselves in the process remained a complete mystery. Maybe the proverbial drunkard's luck applied to other forms of intoxication as well.

 

Arthur also swore he saw penguins waggle in his rosebushes.

 

Francis awoke in the middle of the night with his head on the “Welcome” doormat in their dark hall, as someone stumbled and fell across him. The following selection of whispered swearwords assured him that it was his own husband.

“Tried to throw up.” Arthur's voice was more pained than slurring. The fun part was over. “Can't, fucking gag reflex, why can't you work when I need you!”

Francis closed his eyes, but the darkness behind his eyelids started rotating like a spinning top, so he quickly opened them again. Blinking desperately and feeling as if his whole head would split in half – kind of wished it would – he whispered weakly: “I think I'm dying.”

Arthur, who in turn was trying to breathe in large gulps in the hope to overcome the nausea, agreed.

“Me too.”

Finding Francis' sweaty hand and squeezing it with his trembling one, Arthur added:

“Glad we are dying together.”


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning found Francis leaning on his elbows over the kitchen sink, washing little saucers with a raspberry pattern whose provenance he couldn't remember. Nor could he remember why on Earth they had had the urge to use them yesterday. 

He and Arthur had woken up on the living room couch, though how they had gotten there from the doormat in the hall would remain forever a mystery. After they had checked that the nausea and headache were mutual, they had both agreed to just simply sleep it out – until Arthur had suddenly remembered his previous talk with Peter, and, consequently, that they were to have guests in the house in three hours.

Instead of the younger couple they had found only a short notice written in Matthew's neat script, thanking them for the lunch and advising them to drink plenty of water. Arthur's first reaction, which had been to call the boys immediately since they were the perfect target for his hangover-inspired outburst of irritation, had been stopped when Francis had simply pointed at the living room. It looked like a thirty-something group of pre-schoolers had been told to play “anything goes” for an afternoon, so Arthur had closed his phone and gone to find the vacuum-cleaner.

 

“What are the losses?” Arthur asked as he entered the kitchen, dragging the third garbage bag along with him.

“One of the red guest mugs is missing its handle,” Francis answered, putting the last saucer on the drainer. “I found a teaspoon bend at a ninety degree angle, not sure if it can be bent back. Also, three white plates are missing.”

“Two,” Arthur corrected him. “I found one of them on the bookshelf, next to your museum catalogues collection. Broken exactly in half, I'll try to mend it later with glue.”

Francis nodded absent-mindedly, checking mentally his kitchen equipment. “Also I still can't find the largest ladle that used to hang from the wall next to the stove. How's the rest of the house?”

Arthur scrunched his nose a bit. “I had to throw out the little rug we had in front of the fire – don't ask,” he added as Francis' eyebrows rose in question. “You don't want to know.

“And four of my geranium pots fell from the balcony to the ground. I had to throw out the pots, but the roots look fine, I think they will live.”

Francis, voice full of overly-dramatic sympathy, commented with "Oh, thank goodness!"

"What!"

"Nothing, darling." Francis patted his husband's messy hair, knowing he hated it. "I was just worried we would actually have space enough to walk on the balcony."

At first, Francis had thought his husband's habit of buying the most wretched-looking flowerpots from every flower shop he visited, and consequently trying to nurse them back to health was very endearing and sweet. That is, until he'd once wanted to serve breakfast in full view of the garden and had found that he couldn't so much as step a foot on the balcony floor. Flowerpots occupied every inch of it.

Francis was only happy his husband didn't study zoology.

Arthur's default answer ("They are living beings, you heartless human!") was interrupted by a mixture of sounds: a dog barking, the repetitive ringing of their doorbell as if someone was practice his Morse alphabet knowledge, and a calm yet firm voice saying: "Peter, stop it. It's not nice."

Moments like this made the married couple very thankful for the level of familiarity they shared with Peter's parents. Tino only nodded knowingly as they explained why their fridge was empty, and Peter, already running through the garden with Hana, didn't seem to mind the prospect of eating out.

The four of them ended up with Indian take-away in a park, since the weather was nice and Peter was very fond of this particular playground, which had slides and climbers constructed like a pirate ship. The lunch was divided between light conversation and Tino's attempts to make Peter eat at least part of his meal before he ran off with Hana to play at the ruler of the seven seas.

Playing the captain and at least three different crew members was quite tiring; no wonder the boy fell asleep the moment they got back from their walk. Tino was making sure that Peter and Hana, curled around each other on the living room couch, were safely covered with a fleece blanket when he heard the voices in the kitchen.

“You ask him!”

“Why me? It was your idea with plan D.”

“But only because your plan C was a complete failure!”

“You can hardly say it was my fault. It's your turn to ask.”

“Oh, don't act like you wouldn't enjoy talking about the subject. You didn't seem to mind it very much when you described every fucking detail to the boys.”

“This is different, we never talked about sex with them.”

Tino, being used to daily drama back from the times when he had lived with Berwald's brothers in a large household some fifteen years ago, knew that the sooner one faced a problem the sooner it would be solved. Upon opening the kitchen door, he found Arthur sitting at the table, arms crossed in stubbornness, and Francis standing next to the coffee machine, gesticulating wildly with filters. A brief silence filled with a staring contest between the married couple followed, and finally Francis turned to him, an awkward smile on his lips, and beckoned him to sit down.

“Tino, could we ask you a question about the more... intimate aspects of married life?” Francis finally asked, fighting the terrible biergarten déjà vu.

“Sure.” Tino, who was, more than anything, very amused by the situation, tried to smile as encouragingly as possible. “What exactly would you like to discuss?”

“Frequency.” Arthur's answer was clipped and his eyes was fixed upon an ugly grey mark on the wall paper, which was a reminder of the one time he had tried to surprise his husband with a cooked meal.

“You mean how often me and Berwald have sex?” Tino asked, and as the only answer he got was silence and more awkward glances, he continued. “I don't know.

“You see, Berwald's time outside the clinic is very limited, and my job at the police station isn't exactly giving me much free time either. When we are together, we try to spend as much time with Peter as possible,” he explained, pleased to see the atmosphere become less tense as Francis started to actually prepare the coffee.

“And Peter still has nightmares from time to time, so we can't simply lock our bedroom door in case he wants to sleep with us. I can't tell you the exact number of times, say, within a month,” - he chuckled inwardly as he saw the matching horrified expressions of the couple in front of him - “but it's not very often.”

Arthur, curiosity making him blurt out things he wouldn't usually say, asked, “How do you manage?”

Tino, his smile wide and only a little bit mischievous, answered: “We make it count.”

Hana's barking and Peter's “Dad?” ended their conversation, and the next hour was filled with coffee, tea, hot cocoa and excited talk about an adventure involving pool float and jellyfishes. The sun was already setting by the time Tino glanced at his watch and realized that Berwald's shift would soon be over and they could pick him up on their way home.

The couple saw them off at the front porch, as Tino nearly strangled his son with a large scarf against the chill, despite the evening being quite warm for early November. The boy finally managed to loosen it enough to speak, and, turning to his brother, said:

“I must say, you two behaved rather well today, no yucky things where you think I can't see you. You are almost as good as Papa and Daddy. I'm proud of you.”

Francis laughed, his voice echoing in the dark street, and Hana felt inspired and started barking. Arthur, huffing, pulled his brother's woollen hat over his eyes, resisting the urge to swat him, just for good measure.

Then they got a quick hug around the waist from Peter, and Tino thanked them for the nice day, and unless they were both mistaken, he winked as he turned to his car. They stood there on the steps to the house, waving, and as the blue Volvo disappeared behind the horizon, a realisation dawned on them both.

“We are finally alone.”

They let the front door slam back as they came in, lips already locked in a kiss, noses bumping as they tried not to lose the connection. In a few practised and not really conscious steps, they reached the wall, Francis leaning back against it as Arthur's hands slowly slid from his sides to his hips. 

But as they parted for breath, and Arthur's full attention focused on the stupid button system of Francis' jeans that always took precious minutes to undo, Francis said his name.

It was not a moan; it was a question, and Arthur snapped back to reality and looked up, meeting his husband's eyes.

“Do you think we would manage without?”

 

For a few seconds, only their still slightly quickened breaths were audible in the dark hall. Francis' face was flushed but unusually serious. Arthur gazed at him, trying to process the question, and, more importantly, his own answer.

“I need some fresh air.” 

Arthur turned around and walked out of the house.

 

His rosebush sanctuary wasn't exactly a secret hiding place, since everybody who knew him even remotely well would search for him there. But the feel of the soil, still warm from the afternoon sun as he dug his fingers into it, was soothing, and its smell encouragingly familiar. He started to pick the fallen leaves absent-mindedly, head full of thoughts that seemed to run in a strange version of a boxwood hedge maze.

Maybe ten minutes passed, maybe five; the little heap of leaves to his left was slowly growing bigger. Then he heard a noise from behind him.

Something hit his lower back, and upon reaching behind him, his fingers closed around a pack of cigarettes.

He turned around just in time for his reflexes to notice the next flying object – the lighter – which he caught in his palm, and he finally looked up. Francis' dark silhouette was barely visible on the unlit balcony, the small glowing tip of his cigarette being the only recognizable point against the darkness.

Wordlessly, Arthur lighted his own cigarette and took a slow inhale, his gaze turning to the night sky above him. The cold air, together with the smoke, was making his head clearer with each exhale, and by the time he carefully stubbed the cigarette out, he felt almost calm.

The glowing point on the balcony disappeared as Francis finished his own cigarette, and shortly after that his voice called from above, clear and determined.

“I would want to be with you even if you had your penis chopped off.”

Arthur cringed slightly, never being fond of his husband using the word “penis”, but then looked up and said: 

“Me too.” 

And after a little pause to compose his thoughts, added:

“Even if we never had sex again.”

He couldn't see Francis' expression, but he saw how he jerked his head to the side, a clear invitation to come up and join him.

And Arthur went.

 

The only free space on the balcony was the tiny expanse left by the four missing geranium pots, and Francis was sitting on half of it, legs stretched through the railing, dangling over the edge. Arthur, carefully avoiding his striped petunias, joined him in the same position. At least the tiles were not too cold.

“I think I was just scared that I'm getting old,” Francis said slowly as he felt his husband's warmth settle next to him.

“Me too.” Arthur's conclusion back by the rosebushes had been similar. “Stupid, isn't it? As if we would expect to grow younger.”

Both chuckled slightly. Then Francis leant against his husband's side, and, looking at the city lights flickering from far away, mused: “I wonder what we will be like, when we grow really old.”

“I think I'll start knitting.” Arthur's tone was absolutely serious.

Francis giggled.

“I see Peter's matching winter set was a great inspiration.”

“Oh, be quiet. You will be very thankful one day, just wait until I get better.”

“I hope you will put on at least a bit of weight,” Francis noted as a bony shoulder dug into his cheek. “Pudgy middle-aged Arthur, yes, I think I'm looking forward to having that by my side.”

“It will be solely your fault if I will,” Arthur huffed. 

Francis smiled. “I think this was the most sincere compliment about my cooking I ever received.”

Arthur chose not to comment, feeling far too comfortable to seek a fight. Instead he asked:

“What about you? Any plans for the time when you'll be over sixty and receiving your well-deserved pension?”

Francis was quiet for a while, considering the question in earnest.

“I think I will buy us a canary. And call him Pierre. I've always wanted a canary – why don't we have a canary?” he asked, looking at Arthur accusingly.

“Because,” Arthur scowled back, “the little beasts don't have anything better to do all day than throw the sunflower seed shells from their cages all over the carpet, that's why!” 

Francis, who had no argument against logic this powerful, stayed silent, his head leaning against the bony shoulder again.

Then Arthur lifted his hand and slowly stroked Francis' knuckles, resting on the floor next to him.

“It will be fun, growing old with you.”

Francis caught the stroking hand, not minding the smudges of dirt on it, and then turned to the side, and Arthur did the same, and in the next moment, they were hugging. And, funny thing: they felt unspeakably close, even though three layers of clothing separated their naked skin from contact.


	8. Chapter 8

Francis opens the front door, carefully holding his keys with one hand and five bags with the other; grocery, more grocery, a new shirt that he wants to coax his husband into wearing, a jacket for himself, and the new rug for the fireside.

Arthur's greeting is muffled and distant, because he is standing on a ladder with his head and arms somewhere in the depths of their wardrobe. The hall is covered in cardboard boxes and small heaps of various objects, some of them of very questionable origin.

“Are you searching for something, dear?” Francis asks as he places his own bags on what little space is left next to the door, and slips out of his shoes.

More mumble and then Arthur's head finally appears. “I was... I forgot what I was searching for, but I found out the upper shelves are complete chaos so I pulled out all the stuff and maybe we should sort it out together.”

Francis nods. And has no clue what his husband just said. Because Arthur's hair is tousled and his t-shirt askew; his skin is slightly flushed and sweaty, and the wonderful view from the ground presents his legs and his lovely behind from a very innovative and rather thrilling perspective.

Arthur doesn't mind, because he stares back; at the third button that came undone on Francis' shirt as he fought with the bags and keys.

Their eyes meet, and they both know.

 

They have sex on the hall floor, surrounded by cardboard boxes.


End file.
